Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  “Pity.”

  It was not a plea for sympathy; it was spoken with regret.

  There was no interest on his part in awaiting any kind of rejoinder she might have tripping upon her tongue. He moved on, dragging himself forward on the path marked by the marines. Emily watched him go, and suddenly she understood why the crowds had come to Portsmouth on this day. As her blood ran cold in her veins, she knew she had not seen the last of him.

  9:00 p.m.

  The George Hotel, Portsmouth

  Safely ensconced within the private parlour of the George Hotel, the best inn Portsmouth had to offer, Emily nestled into the comfort of a velvet-lined chair, her hands clasped around a steaming cup of tea, and gazed into the crackling flames of a fire that one of the George’s servants was kind enough to build for her.

  It was chilly this August evening, for the rain had arrived the minute she got up the nerve to quit the Impregnable — only once Trevelyan had been carted away and was long out of sight — and had scrambled into the hired barouche alongside Gus and her Uncle Clarence. It was a relief to see the downpour; it had served to scatter the crowds, pressing around their carriage with their probing eyes and grasping hands. Her uncle’s good-humoured smiles and chuckles were testimony to his enjoyment of all the attention, and Gus — high colour in his young face — had seemed to as well, but since it was her they were trying to touch, and her who received the queerest of looks, Emily had not shared her companions’ enthusiasm, and wished to make a speedy withdrawal to the hotel. The crewmen of the Isabelle, the Amethyst, the Impregnable, and even the USS Serendipity had been known to stare at her, sometimes they had openly gawked, and she had understood that a woman was a rarity on a warship; however, the overwhelming majority of them had always maintained a respectable distance.

  Across the immense rosewood table that gleamed in the glow of sterling silver candelabra, and was neatly arranged with three place-settings of fine china and crystal, sat Gus in a chair of his own, his crutch propped up beside it. His face looked so small sitting amongst the plump cushions, his complexion so pale — a stark contrast to the wine-red colour of the velvet upholstery. Both Emily and Gus had been summoned from their respective rooms on the second floor almost an hour ago, and been informed that supper would be served in the parlour, but thus far only a tray of tea and wine had arrived. The Duke of Clarence was to join them, having left them the instant they had descended upon the hotel, and set off to make “his inquiries” about the town. To while away the hours until his return, Emily and Gus had napped and walked the perimeter of their chambers, exercising their legs on firm ground, but neither had ventured to take a stroll about the town. The rain had been a deterrent, but then so were the crowds of curiosity-seekers who, upon hearing word that Princess Emeline Louisa was lodging at the George, had descended upon the hotel, the children pressing their noses and fingertips against the window panes of the first floor apartments.

  In the time since they had convened in the parlour, Gus had said very little, most likely because the servant who had lit the hearth-fire, and brought them their tray, had — until a few minutes ago — plunked herself down on a stool in the corner and set her inquisitive eyes upon them. It had so annoyed Emily, who had wondered if the girl was hoping to see the two of them perform a juggling act with the fine china, that she kindly asked her to prepare for them another pot of tea. Only too pleased to be of service, the girl had propelled herself from her seat and dashed out of the room. Emily quickly seized the opportunity to address her taciturn companion.

  “Are you hungry, Gus?”

  “I am. I had no breakfast this morning.”

  “Why not?”

  “Your uncle asked me to write two missives for him, and when I was done, the cook’s kitchen was closed so I didn’t get my ration of porridge and ale.” He gave her a weary smile.

  “I am hoping that same irresponsible man will soon return, for I would like nothing better than a bowl of soup right about now.”

  Gus’s eyes absently studied his hands on his lap. “I suppose we’ll be travelling to Winchester tomorrow, and I’ll be left with my uncle.”

  Emily compressed her lips in reply.

  “What if he’s still away at sea?”

  “Does your uncle have a wife?”

  “No, just a housekeeper.”

  Emily sat forward in her chair, her eyes brimming with compassion, and gently placed her open palms upon the table. “Gus, you do know … if I could … I would take you with me. I may be the king’s granddaughter, but I do not have independence of any kind. My will is smothered by the will of my family, and financially I’ve not two shillings to my name. I’m as poor as the lowly sailors who toiled on the Isabelle.”

  “Oh, but I would never have suggested that you —”

  “But if I could,” Emily interjected, “I would buy us a house in the country, and we could live there together as brother and sister.”

  Her remark was rewarded with a visible uplift in Gus’s spirits. “I should like that, Em. And will you be returning to Windsor Castle?”

  Emily let loose a sarcastic yelp. “Nay! Apparently I’m not particularly welcome at any of the homes belonging to my relatives. I am too unmanageable for their tastes, and so, I’m to live in London with a family of complete strangers.”

  Gus shook his head in wonder. “That doesn’t seem right.”

  “No, it does not; however, I managed quite well living amongst the Isabelles, and, before Morgan Evans pulled me from the sea and brought me on board, I had not been acquainted with any one of you. But then you saw how quickly we all became … how you all became such good friends of mine —” Emily, her voice faltering, her emotions so close to the edge, turned away to stare into the flames. It was some time before she was able to look again at Gus, and not in the least bit surprised was she to find he had been closely watching her. Why even a boy of twelve years could guess the turbulent state of her thoughts and feelings! She felt her face grow warm, and went to great lengths to avoid his eyes.

  Gus opened his lips, and hesitated before saying, “May I be so bold as to inquire — I’ve long wanted to ask you —” But he left off, his question unspoken. Perhaps he was wrestling with his better judgement; perhaps it was the sudden appearance of tears in her eyes.

  “You’re wondering if I am missing Dr. Braden.” She heaved a long sigh, and turned once again toward the fire. “He is always present in my mind, lingering just beyond my reach, but lingering nevertheless, like a patch of blue sky on a rainy day, or an inspiring speech before going into battle, or a … a soothing voice when one is frightened by the dark. Sometimes I wonder if it all was nothing more than a dream, but then I see you, Gus —” her eyes found his “— and I am reassured that it did all happen, and I know that Leander Braden really does exist on this earth. You are my final connection to that time, to that frightening, magnificent adventure of mine … and to him … and when you leave tomorrow, you’ll take with you my tangible proof that I did experience … if only for a little while … the freedom of another life.”

  Enveloped in the comfort of the crackling fire, their faces flushed with the warmth of the tea, the two fell silent, leaving one another to their own memories. When the parlour door screamed open, slamming into the opposite wall — and surely leaving a deep depression in the plaster — they were both dragged back to the present with a violent start.

  Into the room swept the Duke of Clarence, smartly attired in fawn- coloured breeches, high-top boots, and a pickle-green waistcoat, though his plump figure could not do them justice. At his round chin was an elaborately tied neckcloth, and his voluminous Carrick coat straddled one arm. He stood there a moment, his coat spilling raindrops upon the rug, beholding them with eyes full of expectation, quite as if he were sitting in the royal box at the Drury Theatre, waiting to see the young Dora Jordan perform her famous role of Rosalind in her yellow knee breeches. Emily and Gus sat up straighter in their chairs, wondering what was a
bout.

  The duke bowed dramatically before them, and announced, “Emeline, Mr. Walby … dinner is served.” Then he stepped to one side to allow the entire kitchen staff, and every one of the George’s servants (there were so many of them, Emily suspected some of them had been summoned from neighbouring inns) to parade into the parlour with the dinner feast. One-by-one they placed their dish or bowl or platter upon the rosewood table with a formal flourish, naming the dish they carried:

  “Filet of lamb.”

  “Grilled sea bass.”

  “Braised chicken in lemon sauce.”

  “Roast of beef in butter sauce.”

  “Savoury meat stuffed vol-au-vents.”

  “Asparagus tips.”

  “Candied carrots.”

  “Potatoes … au gratin,” the latter words being pronounced “O grey-tin.”

  The last dish to be set before them was a puréed pea soup with croutons, the aroma and consistency of which would surely put Biscuit’s oft-served jellied pea soup muck to shame. Next there came the desserts, which were placed with equal fanfare upon the parlour’s commodious sideboard for later.

  “Apple meringue.”

  “Vanilla soufflé.”

  “Egg custard.”

  “Rum and apricot cake.”

  “Strawberries and pears.”

  “Spiced nuts and raisins.”

  Emily watched the grand proceeding quietly from her chair, her lips parted in bewilderment. Why the only missing item was the trumpeter and his festive salute, although she did have a moment’s worry that he was still to follow. She smiled warmly at each and every one of the eager servants, and then shot her uncle an admonishing glare. “Sir, I do not understand. There are only three places set here upon this table; yet you have ordered enough food to feed every man and boy who travelled with us across the ocean on the Impregnable. Shall they soon be joining us?”

  “Good God, Emeline, you can be very droll at times. They shall not! This is a trifling, nothing more! Why we could never have enticed the Regent to Portsmouth with a mere nibble of an incentive such as this. Nay, the meal is for our pleasure alone.”

  He bustled out the disappointed servants, who surely had hoped to watch Emily stuff the food into her mouth — each one scurrying to bow or curtsy or cry out gleefully, “Please enjoy, ma’am” as they headed toward the doorway. Uncle Clarence closed the door upon them, tossed his damp Carrick upon a sofa, and plopped down upon the chair reserved for him. “No need for servants,” he said, reaching for the platter of lemon-sauced chicken. “Dig in … help yourselves.”

  “All this food! Uncle, what’ve you done to the cook? Surely you’ve killed her with exhaustion.”

  “Not at all, my dear, for she had half the town assisting her. And the best part of all … it will cost us nothing. Everything — the food, the accommodation — is extended to us compliments of the townsfolk.” Uncle Clarence abruptly dropped the chicken, threw back his chair, leaped up, and marched across the room toward the heavy draperies that hid a large, street-facing bow window. Drawing them aside, he pointed toward the scene beyond. A tight gathering of people started in excitement when the object restricting them from an interior view of the hotel was stripped away, and they recognized Emily sitting at the table. At once, they began waving at her and tapping upon the panes; some even blew her kisses. For the most part, the crowd consisted of children — poor children — and Emily could see that many of them held flowers or ribbons in their hands.

  “Please don’t tell me they’ve been standing there ever since we arrived,” said Emily in consternation.

  “They have been, my dear, simply to catch a glimpse of you!”

  “They must be cold and starving, and here we sit by a fire with a feast for hundreds.”

  “The proprietor was kind enough to allow them to stay so long as they were quiet, did not break the windows, and didn’t trample his flower gardens.” Uncle Clarence bowed before the crowd, and then, as quickly as he had parted them, he shut the draperies upon the hopeful faces and returned to his supper. Piling high his plate with an assortment of savoury dishes, he inhaled the aromas, emitted a sigh of contentment, and got right down to the business of eating. While he smacked his lips, Emily spooned out some soup for herself, and Gus sampled the beef and asparagus.

  “Now then,” he said, assuming an air of gravity. “For the morning I have arranged a coach and four, although — goodness! — I had a terrible time with the post-boys, who did not seem to care that we’re not carrying mail, and fought monstrously over who should be selected to accompany us on our journey. I had wanted footmen, but the post-boys were so endearingly insistent. Mr. Walby, we shall stop first in Winchester. Your uncle is not at home; it is believed he’s in the West Indies, but his sister has agreed to take you in.”

  “Aunt Sophia?” There was pure terror in Gus’s voice.

  “Yes, yes, that’s the one, and upon your arrival, I’ve arranged for a doctor to see to you. He’s old and retired, but highly regarded.”

  Gus sank further into his chair.

  “Then, my dear,” said Uncle Clarence, angling his head in Emily’s direction, “we shall away to London.”

  “And where will you be dropping me off?”

  “Oh, it is a surprise, and you’ll thank me for it.”

  At this point, Emily could not have cared less if her uncle had arranged for her to lodge in a den with a pack of wolves, but the distress evident in Gus’s face was discomfiting. “Could we not stay here another day or two, Uncle, at least until we’ve regained our land legs.”

  “Absolutely not! I must be back in London in time to be fitted up for a new suit of clothes, so that I may attend the Regent’s birthday party on August twelfth.” He poured a glass of red wine for himself and contentedly raised it to his lips. “Now eat up, and then we will to bed, for we depart in the Morning Watch at eight bells.”

  4

  Sunday, August 8

  8:00 a.m.

  (Morning Watch, Eight Bells)

  Aboard HMS Amethyst

  Halifax, Nova Scotia

  Upon waking and discovering a warm, pleasant day beyond the cramped, stuffy quarters of his hospital, Leander Braden had made his way to the bench on the poop deck’s stern, there to eat his breakfast of cheese and biscuit, and to read in the peace and quiet before resuming his duties. But this morning he was restless and distracted, so much so that after he had downed his light meal, he found he could not concentrate on Thomas Campbell’s poem “The Pleasures of Hope,” completing only a stanza or two before the inclination arose in him to set down the book and once more look out for his friend, Fly Austen.

  Fly had promised to return to the ship early Sunday morning, before muster and church service on deck. He had been gone since Friday noon when they had come sailing into the Halifax Harbour and accompanied Captain Prickett ashore in the launch almost the minute the Amethyst’s anchor had been dropped into the depths, leaving Lord Bridlington in charge, who insisted he stay with the doctor so that his battle wound might be cleansed and re-bandaged on an hourly basis. There was little doubt in Leander’s mind that Prickett would be gone for days, enjoying the sumptuous hospitality of the Admiralty in addition to the more rustic, but convivial, hospitality of the taverns and brothels — thoughts of the latter having sustained the man’s spirits in the days before their arrival in port — and happily wallowing in the Haligonians’ praise for his part in bringing down Thomas Trevelyan’s ship. But Leander knew his friend, and firmly believed Fly would return when he said he would. Besides, though he would admit it to no one, he was hopeful that Fly would bring with him news of Emily.

  Snatching the spyglass from the deep pocket of his new bottle-green coat, Leander placed it to his eye and scoured the waters around the King’s Naval Yard. The Amethyst lay anchored in the middle of the harbour in the company of six other ships-of-the-line, and HMS Centurion, now a hulk put to good use as a hospital and receiving ship, but there were no sm
all boats travelling the distance between them and the shore. From his vantage point, Leander could see plenty of activity afoot in the yard: two small frigates were being constructed, the banging of the shipwrights’ hammers echoing over the water; a careened ship had a team of men stripping the barnacles from its hull; large kettles of pitch were being boiled; new masts were being hauled from the sail loft; a wall of stone was being erected; meat was being purchased in the victualling yard; a cluster of men stood chatting near the door of the blacksmith’s shop; and naval supplies were being transported to and from the various storehouses.

  Leander turned his glass upon the Commissioner’s House, a three- storey architectural beauty with a sloping roof and large, harbour-facing windows which stood out from the rest of the low, flat nondescript wooden buildings and warehouses built around it. He was more than likely sure it was Fly’s location, for H.R.H. Prince Edward, Duke of Kent, had been known to stay there during his time in Halifax as commander-in-chief, and Captain Broke of HMS Shannon had been taken there to recuperate after his ship’s battle with the USS Chesapeake. Unfortunately, at this early hour, there was no one about except for a washerwoman hanging out the laundry.

  Much to Leander’s chagrin, another attempt to read was thwarted by the appearance of the Amethyst’s own washerwoman, Meg Kettle, whose bulk he could see waddling up the ladder with her large basket. She was cursing and chuntering away to herself, and intent on invading his quiet domain in order to string up a few freshly laundered hammocks in the rigging of the mizzenmast. Laundry was rarely done on a Sunday — Mondays and Fridays being the more traditional days — but regardless of the day chosen for the task it was commonplace to hang it to dry in the fo’c’sle rigging. The problem was, with Captain Prickett away from the ship and the Amethysts still working on replacing the broken foremast, Mrs. Kettle was marching — as was her way — to her own rules, indulging in her own caprices.